To Catch a Death Eater
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: DISCONTINUED [Luciuscentric] 12 yrs on, the war continues. Moody needs to stop a deadly Death Eater assassin before it's too late. He'll do anything: even enlist the help of his worst enemy...
1. Default Chapter

A/N – It is probably not the best of ideas to start a new fic at the moment. But this is what comes of reading too much Jack Higgins and watching too many 60s movies. This fic will be unashamedly Lucius-centric, and will feature drinking, smoking and the main character displaying his coolness at every turn. At least, I believe it will – this little jaunt is entirely unplanned and perhaps a little tongue-in-cheek. I'm not promising anything at all.

Don't expect too much of my traditional characterization.

Disclaimer – I don't own anything. Don't sue.

* * *

Chapter 1: Introduction

* * *

It had been ten years since the first gigantic step in the war against Voldemort had been taken, since Harry Potter, as so many had so faithfully predicted, had defeated the Dark Lord in a spectacular battle at Hogwarts in his seventh year. Unfortunately, destroying the leader of the Death Eaters had only caused the organization to splinter into smaller sub-groups, all following a different leader, all of which claimed that they were the true successor to Voldemort's position. In the end, it had almost turned out to be more trouble than it was worth; or at least, there were times that Alastor Moody thought so. Usually that kind of cynicism only took hold at around three in the morning, after he'd downed the best part of a bottle – but on days like these, it was hard to avoid.

It was a damp, miserable, windy morning, just before five, and he had been dragged out of bed and down to the London docks to investigate a dead body found floating face down in the water –

_What the hell has that got to do with me? Unless it's a full-blown Death Eater attack, I'm not interested..._

_But sir, we think – we're not sure, but we think – that it might be..._his_ work. You know..._

Yes, he knew. And that was the only reason he was out here in this godforsaken place – the chance that it might be _him. _The mysterious assassin he'd been chasing for months, without much success. The assassin had killed six times, all of them influential members of the Ministry, and it was making certain people in very high places extremely nervous, which meant that they, in turn, put pressure on him to catch the killer before they became the next target...

Unfortunately, there was not much to go by.

All the victims had been influential in the Ministry, but there was no other clear connection between them, other than their place of employment and their vehement anti-Death Eater sentiments. They had all been...dispatched...with the utmost efficiency, by the same method – the Killing Curse, fired from a distance of at least one hundred metres.

A bloody sniper. And a phenomenally skillful one, at that.

He suspected that a post-mortem of the poor bastard face down in the Thames would reveal the same cause of death.

* * *

Arthur Weasley, the Minister of Magic, received the news that the sniper had struck again with a strained sigh. Their world had existed in a state of intermittent war for so long that most of the wizarding population had grown accustomed to it, but this kind of news, if it was ever released to the public, could cause a mad panic, possibly even undermine the government and the people's confidence in it.

He didn't need this kind of stress.

Scowling half-heartedly, he looked at Alastor Moody and said, "Do you have any idea who this killer is?"

Moody only grunted. "He's a Death Eater, I'm all but certain of it, or working for them. I couldn't tell you which group, but no one else would bother to kill those six – seven now. The only thing they had in common was their sentiments."

"But couldn't the killer be trying to cast the blame onto the Death Eaters?"

The crusty old Auror shrugged. "Why? Other than the WIRA, who haven't been active since the Irish peace process, there are no other real threats to wizarding England. And the WIRA won't have anything to do with the Death Eaters – they see them as nothing more than murderers."

"Hmm..." Weasley ran a hand through his thinning red hair. "Anything else?"

Moody stuck his hands in his pockets. "He's very, very good, not just at the killing, but at the preparation – the organization, the clean-up afterwards. That suggests a veteran to me."

"A veteran?" Arthur repeated. "From the first Rising?"

"Yes." Briefly, Moody looked extremely weary. "And that means he's very, very good."

"Damn. Well, do whatever you can to find him, Moody. I don't care what you do or how you do it, just find him and stop him."

"And little quibbles such as human rights, parliamentary accountability...?" Moody was deeply suspicious of the new-fangled liberal notions that were crippling the freedom of the modern Auror Corps and the more covert Unspeakable operatives. Back in the good old days, counter-terrorism had had a much freer, harsher hand...

The Minister of Magic waved a dismissive hand. "Keep it discreet, and I'll make sure that this never happened." Since assuming the position of Minister of Magic, Arthur Weasley had, of necessity, become far more pragmatic.

Moody nodded solemnly, restraining the sudden desire to grin – pragmatic as he had become, Weasley was still less than comfortable with the dirtier side of law enforcement. Well that was all right – Moody would take care of all of that for him. With great pleasure.

* * *

"Well, kiddies," said Moody almost cheerfully as he looked at the team assembled to hunt the assassin, "we've got the Ministerial go-ahead. Anything we need – within reason – will be provided, so long as we catch the bastard."

There was a general murmur and hum of pleasure.

"So," he said, regaining their attention. "We'll go over it again. Seven victims in four months: all of them killed with a single curse fired from a great distance, and their only common characteristic their anti-Death Eater sentiments. I think we can put this down to a Death Eater killer, out to terrify the politicians into submission, perhaps even create chaos and undermine the government. The only problem is – who is it? Most of the known Death Eaters still out there aren't good enough for this. They're kids, and this has all the hallmark of a veteran."

"Most of the truly dangerous veterans have been put away by now," said Bill Weasley. "If not at the end of the first Rising, then at the Battle of Hogwarts – we caught most of them and locked them away for good."

"Then if he's still out there," Tonks said quietly, "that makes him very, very good. Have you talked to Snape about this?"

Moody nodded. "I have. He said that back then, in the very early days, he knew nothing more about his fellows than what he could work out on his own, from watching his peers, and that he only ever knew the man who recruited him and the two others who were the contacts from his group. Later on, as he became more trusted, he began to identify a few others, but as he spent most of his days in a potions lab..."

Old Arabella Figg grunted, less than gracefully. "Snape's not of much use, now – not after that bastard Nott exposed him. I'm surprised he can even think rationally, let alone remember a shadow assassin from the seventies."

"That's right," Moody said a little regretfully. He'd never liked or trusted Snape, but he had done a lot of useful work for the Order. Besides, much as he was all for cracking down on terrorists, no one deserved what had been done to him. There were some things that were too sickening, even for him. "He couldn't give us any names. What we need is an expert..."

"So," Hermione Granger said, "who is the greatest living expert on the Death Eaters in the first Rising?"

They tossed around a few names – Aurors (most of whom were dead), Unspeakable infiltrators (some of whom had defected, bringing disastrous knowledge of the Ministry's secrets over with them), and academics (which none of the group took seriously, having a healthy contempt for ivory tower experts) but could not come up with any viable suggestions.

And then Tonks said, "Well, what about Malfoy?"

Bill Weasley snorted, and Hermione gave him a Look, before shaking her head. "No, he's too engrossed with his new wife and son. He's got too much to worry about, protecting them and staying alive while all the younger Death Eaters try their hardest to kill him."

Tonks subjected them both to an ironic look of her own. "I was not speaking of _Draco_ Malfoy..."

* * *

A/N – This may prove to be an interesting idea. Next chapter – Moody tries to recruit Lucius. And as for my own little dig at academics – I shouldn't have, because I'm studying a few political science courses myself, but I just couldn't help it.

WIRA – the wizarding IRA. A little something I made up.

And no, to all you conspiracy theorists out there, Moody is not creating/over-emphasising/exploiting these assassinations in order to gain more money and power for the Aurors or his particular group. I'd just like to get that out of the way first, in case anyone was disturbed by his pleasure at Arthur's open-ended mandate.

Feedback of any kind would be most welcome.

* * *


	2. Recruitment

A/N – I have decided that the Dementors have wholly abandoned Azkaban, and now it is only a maximum security wizarding prison. This fic is set 10 years after Harry's seventh year, so Lucius has been in prison for 12 years. Again, I would issue some tongue-in-cheek warnings, and emphasise the effect of too much Jack Higgins.

Disclaimer – I don't own anything. Don't sue.

* * *

Chapter 2 – Recruitment.

* * *

Even without the Dementors, Azkaban was one of the least pleasant places Lucius had ever seen. In the arrogance of his youth he had been confident that he could become a Death Eater and escape capture, that _he _would never face the consequences of his choice... And he had been right, the first time he had put that certainty to the test. But, he supposed, having escaped Azkaban the first time around, it was a little too much to expect getting off twice –

At least, that was what he had felt when he had first been tossed in here, but that attitude had lasted all of a month. It was a truly wretched place, with dark, dank stone walls, interminably dripping water, and hysterical screaming from the other inmates who had been unlucky enough to be here before the Dementors had deserted, and by the end of three months he had wanted out.

He had actually waited patiently, believing that the Dark Lord would provide for his – relatively – faithful second in command's liberation, but when a year had passed and nothing had happened, it had been fairly clear that he had been abandoned.

And after all that he'd done for the Cause.

Well.

A few years later, when there _had _been the opportunity of a prison break – held out as a bonus afterthought to freeing a truly important, valued Death Eater – he'd done his discreet best to ensure that it failed. The governor had been properly grateful, grateful enough that he'd been moved to more comfortable accommodations, and he'd eventually resigned himself to spending the rest of his life in Azkaban.

As long as he was in prison, none of them could get him – not the Aurors, who had not been satisfied with sending him to Azkaban and had campaigned long and hard for the Kiss, not the Death Eaters who were less than pleased with his betrayal of their prison plot, and not anyone else who might come calling, seeking revenge for anything that he might have done in his reckless, wild youth.

It was not such a bad life.

It was safe. His new quarters were quite comfortable – monetary inducement could buy rich furnishings and special treatment from the guards who were stuck here, on a barren island in the middle of nowhere, with only one weekend off a month. He had a flourishing little sideline in black market dealings, and managed, using his superior manipulative skills to stay on the good sides of both prisoners and guards. That was, the prisoners treated him with respect or he enforced his dominance forcefully, and he made sure that they made no trouble for the guards, who in turn gave him no trouble.

It had not been so easy, at first – a malicious guard named Watkins had done his best to make his life miserable, and the prisoners had not been so willing to cooperate with him – but he was nothing if not patient. It had taken him another two years, but the prisoners who gave him the most trouble somehow fell ill, or met with accidents, or decided it was in their best interests to cooperate, and as for Mr. Watkins, well…

The least said about that incident, the better.

And so here he was, twelve years in Azkaban, and while he could delude himself that he was content with being a shark in such a small, miserable pond, the truth was…

The truth was, he'd do absolutely anything to get out. Oh, he could escape, but then he'd always be looking back over his shoulder, waiting for the inevitable footsteps… He wanted to get out legitimately and not have to worry about, at the least, one of the groups after his head. He wanted to walk in the outside world again, to go somewhere just because he could and not just because the indulgent authorities had allowed him.

He wanted… He wanted to see his son, even if his son had no interest in seeing him. Just once.

He wanted to walk on Malfoy land again, which had somehow assumed a rich, nostalgic glow that was no doubt an illusion created by a long absence, but was nonetheless no less powerful.

He wanted…he wanted to feel _alive_ again.

* * *

Moody had always hated Azkaban. It was such a miserable place with such a dark, dreary atmosphere that he tried to avoid visiting it unless it was absolutely necessary – unfortunately, in this particular case there was no way he could avoid the trip. If he was to catch this assassin, he needed to speak to Malfoy. And to speak to Malfoy…

At least he was not alone in his misery – since it was her suggestion in the first place, he had ordered Tonks to come with him. It was hard to believe, sometimes, that Lucius Malfoy was her uncle by marriage – although neither side acknowledged the relationship. Malfoy and his (ex-wife, now) were not willing to admit to a mudblood connection and Andromeda and Frank Tonks had cordially loathed their Malfoy connections – it had not made for good family relations. But Tonks and young Malfoy got on well enough, he had to admit. And there were times when Tonks displayed an almost Slytherin deviousness –

Such as this little ploy. Set the most influential and dangerous Death Eater of the first Rising to catch one of the most dangerous Death Eater assassins they'd come across in a very long time – viewed objectively, it was a very good idea. Get Lucius Malfoy's cunning and intelligence to work for them, rather than against them, and possibly even make an agent out of him…

Yes, a very good idea.

As to how they would secure that cooperation, or how they would keep it, once outside Azkaban's walls…

Tonks had been alarmingly blasé about it all. _Oh, don't worry, he'll cooperate – he's been out of the game for so long, he'll be itching for any chance to get back… _

_It's not about ideology or pure blood with him – he simply doesn't believe in those things. It's always been the thrill, the intrigue, the game – offer him a chance to feel alive again, and he'll do cooperate._

Thrill seeker.

Amoral adventurer.

Why had Lucius Malfoy joined the Death Eaters in the first place?

_For a chance at something _more. _Something beyond conventional societal bounds…_

The governor showed them into the visiting room, and as they sat two guards led a tall, familiar figure into the room. Even handcuffed and dressed in prison overalls, even unshaven with shoulder-length, shaggy hair tied back with a piece of leather, Lucius Malfoy was unmistakable – and just as unmistakable was his crooked smile as he saw who his impromptu visitors were.

"Hello, Moody," he said casually, sinking into a chair before the guards could force him into it. The guards, looking a little nonplussed, took up stations on either side of the door and assumed their most uninterested expressions, but Moody was willing to wager anything that they were listening avidly. He cleared his throat meaningfully, looking from the guards to the door, and with a disappointed air they filed out, not willing to cross such a powerful official.

When they were gone, he turned to the prisoner. "Malfoy." Indicating Tonks, he said, "This is my colleague, Tonks –"

"Yes," Malfoy said dryly, "I remember Nymphadora…" He ignored her involuntary wince. "What brings you here, of all places, Moody?"

"An offer," Moody said.

Malfoy raised a brow. "Oh?"

"First things first." Moody took out a cigarette and lit it with a muttered incantation. "How long have you been in here, Malfoy? Ten years? Twelve?"

"You know how long I've been in here," Malfoy said dryly. "You put me here. I bet you've been keeping the anniversary."

Moody allowed himself a mellow chuckle, enjoying the memory as he blew out a thin cloud of smoke in Malfoy's direction. "So I did," he said in rich satisfaction. "So I did, and it was a great, great day. However, all things on this earth must end – and circumstances have changed."

Malfoy leaned back insolently in his chair, settling his cuffed hands more comfortably in front of him. "Circumstances have changed?" he repeated ironically. "What do you want?"

"The question is, Malfoy – what do _you _want? Do you want to rot away in here for the rest of your very long pureblooded life? Or do you want to get out into the real world once more?"

"And what would I have to do to earn my re-entry into the real world?"

"Ah," Moody said, his eyes narrowed, and blew out more smoke. "Now that is the interesting bit…"

And he explained the situation to Malfoy, with occasional interjections from Tonks. When he was finished, Malfoy watched them through narrowed, intelligent eyes. "And, just for the sake of accuracy, let's say that I don't agree to do this…" The congenial irony was still strong in his tone; he had not yet become truly angry.

"We'll go away and leave you in peace," Moody said amiably. "No one will ever bother you again, and you can live out the rest of your life here in Azkaban. Unless, that is, the Aurors again appeal your sentence and it is decided to give you over to what Dementors we still have left…"

Malfoy smiled, just a little tightly. "Well then…" he shrugged casually. "Since you put it that way, I'll be happy to help you find your assassin. And once it's over?" He raised his eyebrow again, questioning.

"We'll see," Moody said pleasantly.

But it was the best that Malfoy was going to get, and he knew it. So he smiled, deriving what amusement he could from the situation – at least, he thought, the future held the promise of further interest.

He was getting out. He would walk under the blue sky again. The Aurors would be staved off – for a time, at least – and he had an intriguing puzzle to sink his long-unused teeth into, even if he did have to cooperate with Moody.

What more could he possibly want?

"Very well, Moody," he finally said. "I'll hunt down this assassin for you. And then," he grinned, this time, showing his teeth, "and then we'll see."

Yes, he thought, as the guards released his handcuffs and gave him back his old civilian robes, life was indeed looking up. And as he walked out of the entrance to Azkaban – with a pleasant greeting for the governor and for each of the guards – and into the sunlight, he tipped his head back unashamedly and chuckled with pure delight.

He was back.

He was _alive._

* * *

Feedback of any sort would be greatly welcomed. Thanks very much.


	3. The Measure of a Man's Life

A/N – Suddenly I have inspiration by the bucketful. I've got three other stories to work on, but I feel that if I don't get it down it'll be gone for good if I wait. Bloody muse never turns up when I want it to.

All right, technical notes:

Lucius was 41 (b.1954) in OotP, which was set in 1995. So, if he has been in prison for 12 years, this is set in 2007, and he is 53. I'm sure that you've all read those fics where wizards have longer life spans than muggles, so I will now invoke authorial privilege and borrow that nifty plot device. However, those fifty-plus years make him a most interesting wizard – if, as I have always assumed, he joined the Death Eaters straight out of Hogwarts (or even before), he would have joined in 1972. Draco and Harry were born in the fateful yr of 1980, so he had at least 8 yrs as a Death Eater. Growing up in the 60s and being active in the 70s, some of the more eventful years (especially for terrorism) of this century, this gives us some intriguing material to play with.

Having said that, Lucius is one of the most mercurial characters I have ever written. He seems to have a different personality in every story I write. Most certainly, this Lucius is quite, quite different…

Disclaimer – I don't own anything. Don't sue.

* * *

Chapter 3 – The Measure of a Man's Life.

* * *

Word got round, as it always did. Even as Moody and Tonks were visiting Azkaban, Hermione had drifted over to visit the one man she had never thought she would call friend, or even ally – just to see his reaction to her news.

She had never quite got out of the habit of needling Draco Malfoy.

He was seated at his desk behind piles of paperwork, his thick white hair unruly and messy, the equivalent of a thundering scowl – a faint crease between his brows, his mouth thin and set – marring the usual impassivity of his face. He looked up quickly as the door opened, ready to freeze the poor sod foolish enough to disturb his concentration, but when he saw her the annoyance subsided a little, and he even dredged up a polite smile.

"Granger," he said neutrally, "I'm a little busy. Can't it wait?"

"This is interesting, Malfoy," she assured him. "I thought you might want to hear the truth of it first, before you got it from garbled office gossip…"

Almost reluctantly, he sighed and put down his quill. "Very well, Granger, spill. Tell me all." He looked expectantly at her – almost certainly feigned – and she wondered, not for the first time, that she could ever have thought he had no sense of humour.

She grinned toothily, seated herself without asking on the only other chair in the room. "Are you sure you're ready to hear it?" she teased.

He raised a brow, picked up his quill and focused once more on his paperwork.

She gave an exasperated exclamation and threw up her hands. "All right, all right! I give up, I'll tell you."

He turned his attention back to her, smiling just a little smugly.

"Moody's going to get your father to help on the assassination case."

His face blanked, lost all traces of expression. "Oh?" His accent sharpened, became clipped, cold. "And why should he think Lucius would possibly agree?"

Hermione blinked. She had known that Draco had broken with his father after he had been imprisoned, but she hadn't known the bitterness still ran deep, even now. It was a little disconcerting, in a way, to think that he could harbour this much emotion, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. "Moody's offering to release him from Azkaban."

Draco smiled, razor sharp and mirthless. "Of course. A new chance at life. No doubt he was strangling in there, with nothing more to do than meditate…"

"Well?" She demanded. "Do you think he'll accept?"

Draco didn't answer, but stood up abruptly and went over to the window. His right hand was shoved into the pocket of his robes, and she thought that it might have been clenched into a white-knuckled fist – but sometimes with Malfoy it was so hard to tell. "Will he come here?" he asked, finally back under control, but not meeting her eyes.

"Yes," she said simply, somehow not as amused as she thought she would be.

He said nothing more, but turned back to the window, engrossed in memories or thoughts that only he could share. She left him there in peace, and closed the door behind her.

* * *

After she had gone, he relaxed the frozen mask and unclenched his fist, let himself examine the very mixed feelings Hermione's news had aroused.

_Lucius, you old bastard…_

_You always did say that nothing would ever keep you down._

* * *

As they came out into the sunlight and made their way to the barge, Lucius looked at Moody and raised a brow. "Do you have any more of those?" he asked, indicating the almost finished cigarette.

Moody took it out of his mouth, examined it. "I didn't know you smoked, Malfoy."

Lucius shrugged. "I don't – not now, anyway. But back when I was young and stupid…" The crooked smile appeared, just for a moment.

Moody passed him another cigarette.

Tonks eyed Lucius with great fascination as he lit up and took a long, leisurely drag, exhaling with every sign of pleasure. This was not the man she'd known growing up as a half-blooded witch caught between her father's muggle heritage and her mother's High Clan one. The Lucius Malfoy she remembered had been the epitome of the archetypical High Clan Lord – elegant, faintly sinister, always perfectly in control; the kind of man who could and would carry the whole weight of his responsibilities with what appeared to be the greatest of ease.

The man Draco had described, the one and only time he had ever confided to her, had been very, very different – bore more resemblance to the man she saw now, hair rakishly tangled, eyes narrowed against the brisk snapping breeze, contentedly smoking and speaking ruefully of his foolish youth. Oh, some resemblance remained – the arrogance, the authority, the sense of style – but it was the change in attitude that was the most striking difference.

She had not been as confident as she had seemed, when she had assured Moody that his plan would work. The childhood fears of her imposing uncle had led her to scoff at Draco's description; she could not have imagined Lucius Malfoy as anything more than the Lord of High Clan Malfoy.

But here he was.

Oh, here he was…

* * *

On the barge, inside the cabin, they sat around a battered table and Moody examined a thick, well-thumbed file stuffed with documents, reports and photographs. Or rather, he read it out, trying to get some kind of reaction from the enigma seated across from him.

"Caius Lucius Malfoy," he said pedantically, "only son and heir of Caius Marcus Malfoy, who was not only the Malfoy Lord, but…" he paused, "a greatly respected, high ranked Auror as well."

Lucius said nothing, merely stared at him impassively.

"I remember him," Moody said, reminiscing deliberately. "He was a great man, an example to the whole Corps. Slytherin or not, he had ironclad principles and he stood by them, no matter what…"

Though he watched, he could detect only the slightest flicker of irony before it was quickly masked.

"We were all devastated when he was killed in 1970. Where was it, again?"

Lucius obliged him dryly. "In some squalid little muggle war on the other side of the world. The gods only know what he was doing there, though." He leaned back in the chair. "Or, perhaps, _you _know…"

Oh, yes, Moody knew – but there was no way he was going to admit to it. He more than half suspected that Malfoy knew anyway.

"You finished school in 1971, and went overseas for six months. No one has ever quite managed to find out where you went, but there has been quite a lot of speculation. There are some who say you did the Grand Tour, others who say Moscow, and still others who say the training camps in Northern Africa…"

Lucius blinked slowly, gracefully. "Moscow? Training camps in Northern Africa? Whatever for?"

Tonks choked on her tea. Lucius reached out to pat her on the back.

Moody continued. "And then you returned to England, and, in what I cannot believe is coincidence, the Death Eaters suddenly unleashed a devastating campaign…" He stopped, suddenly enraged. "For God's sake, Malfoy, why did you do it? You had the whole world at your feet; you could have had everything and anything you ever wanted just for the crooking of a finger. Why the hell did you turn to Him?"

Lucius gave him a long, unreadable look, and Moody noticed that his eyes – cool, distinctive Malfoy silver – were not just cold; they were utterly and completely indifferent.

"Why not?" he asked, as if it were the most reasonable question in the world.

* * *

Once upon a time, he had worshipped his father, admired everything he said and did, strove to be just like him in every possible way. But it was hard, trying to live up to his father's ideals in this changed world, where progress – usually so slow, in their world, but which could not be denied forever – was overtaking the traditional ways and traditional mindsets, where suddenly everything that their Clan had held sacred for generations was worthless and outdated.

And then, just at the most vulnerable stage of his adolescence, where the way he viewed the world through mature, adult eyes was formed and set, his father was taken away.

And everything he had said was suddenly wrong, and he was left alone to cope with the fall out…

So he did the only thing possible to him at the time. He had repudiated everything his father had taught him, and had gone as far as he could in the opposite direction – out of spite, stubbornness, or a desperate need to find himself, he didn't know.

And as he shaped his life in defiance of his father's, he told himself he didn't care, that it didn't matter – but he did care, and it did matter – but there were some things that were too fundamentally ingrained in him to discard.

The Malfoy estate and lands.

Their paramount position in the endless politicking intrigues of the High Clan.

And the countless tenants, retainers and dependents who depended on the Malfoy for their livelihood and survival.

So, when seen _from a certain point of view, _he and his father were not so very different after all…

A thought that both terrified and gratified him.

But when it came down to bare facts pinned down in black and white on paper, the differences became horribly apparent.

* * *

A/N – So, whose pov was it, in that last section? Draco's, or Lucius', or both? I find the parallels fascinating.

Auror!Marcus Malfoy – this is something I've been thinking of doing for a while, but could never find anywhere to put it. I've always thought it would have a great effect on Lucius. The idea was inspired by Lady Erised's stories, where Snape comes from a long line of famous Aurors, and actually was one himself before he turned.

"_From a certain point of view…" _Obi-Wan Kenobi's sophistry, from the Return of the Jedi.

And of course I don't condone smoking. I just think that Lucius would very likely have smoked in his foolish, reckless youth – everyone did in those days, didn't they?

Thanks to all your wonderful reviews. Feedback of any kind is most welcome.

* * *


	4. Honesty

Aha! I'm back. I'm on holidays. Go me.

A/N and Disclaimer – I don't own anything, except a CCR Greatest Hits CD that I adopted from my father. 'Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori' is the title of a WW1 poem by (Owen Wilfred?) and is translated as 'it is sweet and fitting to die for your country'. The usage in the poem was entirely ironic. Any forensic science and investigations in this fic are entirely imaginary, and gleaned from an odd assortment of murder mysteries.

* * *

Chapter 4 - Honesty

_

* * *

_

"...Some folks are born with star-spangled eyes,  
Ooh, they send you down to war.  
And when you ask them, "How much should we give?"  
Ooh, they only answer, "More! More! More!..."

It ain't me, It ain't me,  
I ain't no military son, no.  
It ain't me, It ain't me,  
I'm no fortunate one..."

Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Fortunate Son"

* * *

"Draco?" His wife's voice broke into his contemplation. "What's wrong? Hermione told me you were upset, that you wanted to talk to me."

She came up behind him and put her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder. She was tall, his Ginevra – well, with six tall brothers she'd been bound to be – and strong; strong enough to put up with him, his demons, and his responsibilities.

"Did she?" he asked ironically. "That's good of her."

Ginny sighed. Even now, two years after their wedding, relations between her husband and her family and friends were…strained, to say the least. The birth of their son Julian had gone far towards alleviating the tension – at least it had for Molly Weasley, who had promptly absolved Draco of all his sins – but the tension at family dinners was still thick enough to cut with a knife, and her brothers still took great delight in taunting poor Draco at every turn. So when _Hermione _had told her that Draco was upset, she had known it was serious, and had come as soon as she could, leaving her mother to baby sit Julian.

"What happened?" she asked again.

His body was tense, quivering finely in her arms, but his voice was steady and completely without inflection. "Moody has had a brilliant idea."

She frowned, puzzled. "What?" What did the occasionally cracked products of Moody's paranoia have to do with anything?

She could feel the vibrations of his laughter. "You know, it _is _brilliant, in a way…"

Seriously concerned, now, she let him go and moved around so that she could see his face, see the truth in the brilliance or dullness of his eyes. "What is it, Draco? What's going on?"

He didn't get the chance to answer. A brisk, demanding knock sounded on the door, and Tonks – her hair and eyes ordinary brown now – came in and said, "Malfoy, Moody wants to see you – oh." She stopped when she saw Ginny. "I'm sorry Ginny; I didn't know you were here…"

Draco looked at his cousin. "Is he here already?" There was an odd vulnerability in his voice, so odd that it put Ginny immediately on guard.

When Tonks nodded with something like – _sympathy? – _Ginny knew there was something very strange going on. And whatever it was, if it could make Draco vulnerable, then she was going to be involved in it whether he liked it or not.

When Draco left the room with something like reluctance, Ginny went with him.

* * *

So, his son had become an Auror. A ruthless, intelligent fighter well respected by his fellows, if not well liked – accepted by most, and admired by more than a few.

Lucius would be the first to admit that he hadn't been a particularly good father. But it seemed that Draco had become a good man, despite that –

_You created this situation, Father, with your damned reckless, infernal need to stir things up – and now you'll leave me to deal with it on my own? You care more for yourself and your own amusement than you ever did for your responsibilities…_

Well, it was true enough. He had taken over the responsibilities of the Clan Lord after his own father's death, but they had never been anything more than a burden – they had never been a sacred calling, as they had been to Marcus and the other great ancestors of Malfoy legend. Lucius knew himself well enough to accept this; there had been more than enough time for meditation and introspection in the silent dark.

He had stopped lying to himself long ago.

"Well, Malfoy," Moody said dryly, "are you ready to face him?" Evidently, the whole of wizarding England knew about his son's repudiation of him. Draco must have spread it about to gain more support from all those who had ever hated him – no doubt it had worked brilliantly.

"Get it over with quickly," the old man advised. "And then you can concentrate on catching our assassin."

Lucius smiled. It almost reached his eyes. "Don't worry, Moody, I won't forget where my priorities lie."

They were standing in the Auror Corps' Hall of Honour, where all the aurors who had died in the line of duty had been commemorated. It was a huge, echoing hall, with small portraits, names and epitaphs of the fallen covering the white marble walls, stretching back to Elizabeth the 1st's founding of the Corps in 1558. He had only ever been in this wretched mausoleum once, to see his father join the exulted company on the walls –

_Caius Marcus Malfoy_

_1895 – 1970_

_Order of Merlin, 1st Class_

_"Dulce et decorum est…"_

Goddamn him and his rigid, hopelessly old fashioned sense of duty. And goddamn Moody, for trying to needle him like this –

He turned around as he heard a footstep behind them, and saw his son approaching, saw the uncertainty in his eyes and the confident indifference he used to disguise it. Draco did not look surprised to see him – he supposed gossip still ran through the Ministry as quickly as ever – but the woman at his side, tall, red haired and striking, looked stunned and aghast. She kept her tongue, though, perhaps sensing something unusual in the offing. Moody coughed and tactfully withdrew to the other side of the hall, ostensibly to examine eighteenth century portraits, but young Ginevra – for surely it was she – stayed stubbornly – possessively – by his son's side, staring at him challengingly.

Lucius ignored her, focusing on Draco instead. They stood there for a time, watching each other, measuring the changes wrought by twelve long, hard years, and then Lucius – perhaps influenced by his father's silver gaze above him – spoke to his son for the first time since he had been sentenced to Azkaban.

"Do you believe that?" he asked, tilting his head towards the Latin epitaph. He wanted – needed – to know.

If he was put out by the abrupt question, Draco gave no indication. Walking closer to his grandfather's portrait, he said quietly, reflectively, "That first year after you were…taken away, I used to come here, to see him – to try and understand. I used to think he could tell me something, some important secret that could explain why…" Ginevra's eyes softened and she put a hand on his arm, squeezing slightly.

"And did he?" Lucius highly doubted it.

"No." Draco shook his head. "Nothing. Only that 'it is good and honourable to die for your country' – and no, I don't believe such Victorian melodrama. I'll only ever die for two things –" he lifted his head, turned back to stare almost defiantly at Lucius, "for my family, and for the Malfoy."

"Everything else is unimportant." And he put his arm around Ginevra Weasley, and the conclusions were easy enough to draw.

His son had married a Weasley.

Lucius watched them both for a while longer, and then smiled fractionally – a real smile, this time. "Well enough, Draco," he answered the unspoken challenge. "As long as you are strong enough to enforce that claim…"

"I am." He said it easily, confidently. "I am strong enough."

And Lucius believed him.

* * *

There was a discreet knock on the door and a dark-cloaked Auror entered, making his way to Moody's side and whispering urgently in his ear. Ginny watched, frowning, as both Draco and his father seemed to stand just a little straighter, their eyes just a little more alert – really, she hadn't realized what how much Draco had been influenced by his father before now; watching them stand side by side, the similarities were startling.

But so were the differences.

Moody frowned direly as he listened to the Auror's message, and then he turned, unmistakably, to fix his rolling, wild eyes on Lucius.

"Well, Malfoy," he said with horrible relish, "it's time to earn your keep. The bastard has struck again."

* * *

The scene of the crime was a quiet, secluded little cottage in the countryside, very old-fashioned even for the wizarding world. There were Aurors everywhere, frowning and examining the ground meaningfully, looking as though they were doing something useful. When Moody saw them he groaned out loud, and sent Bill Weasley and Tonks to clear them out –

_Get rid of these bloody clumsy fools before they do any more damage to the scene…_

So that he and his elite squad – experienced in the worst aspects of counter-terrorism – could see what they could see. Or, more accurately, so that Lucius could give them the benefit of his dubious expertise. Draco watched his father somehow draw the attention of the squad to himself, so that it seemed as if he and not Moody were the one in command – and then he saw him check, hesitate, turn his head slightly to the right.

It appeared as though he were looking towards the body, or at least in the same direction. But in an instant, the strange impression was gone, and there was only professional expertise covered by cool irony, as there had always been for as long as Draco could remember.

The body – a portly, bearded wizard, his hair absent mindedly tangled and graying, was slumped bonelessly on the thick grass, his pipe still smouldering where it had fallen when he collapsed. Moody and Lucius, drawing on pairs of sterile gloves, went over to the body and, bending down, gently took it by the shoulder and rolled it over.

Draco drew in a breath.

He knew who the dead man was. He had never before met him, but he knew who he was – or rather who he had once been, when he had been the judge presiding over the second generation Death Eater trials.

"Sir Samuel Griffith," Moody said slowly. "He's retired now, but he was once very influential in the Ministry." He looked at Lucius, who was looking down at the dead man, smiling almost ruefully. "But I suspect you knew that already."

"Hmmm," Lucius answered. He reached out and touched two fingers to the dead man's neck, feeling the stiffness of the muscles, checking for any unnatural rigidity that would indicate the Avada Kedavra.

Every single one of them in that group was intimately familiar with the particular effects of the Killing Curse. They knew what they saw.

Tonks, who had had the misfortune to come up at just that moment with a message, coughed as tactfully as she could. "Sir, it looks like Bill's found something…"

Lucius turned his attention towards her, and the odd tension was broken. "What?" he asked crisply, none of his formerly languid manner evident.

"Ah…you might want to come and see," she prevaricated, unwilling to be the messenger. Draco could see his cousin's discomfort, and wondered what had so upset her normal optimistic, Gryffindoric self possession. She had never been so uncomfortable around his father before, on the very few times they had ever interacted. In fact, Tonks had always gone to great lengths to demonstrate that she was not intimidated by her formidable uncle-by-marriage.

His father had always been perceptive.

* * *

The common room of the Grey Kneazle, a run down hedge tavern in the depths of Knockturn Alley, was always dark, dingy and smoky, even in the middle of the day. This could be attributed to sheer laziness and lack of cleanliness, but in fact the real reason was so that the innkeeper would be able to say, with perfect truthfulness, that he had no way of knowing anything about the private business of the customers who patronized his tavern. Certainly, the place was identified as a genuine Death Eater haunt by the Aurors, but because it was always only the small fry who were fool enough to flaunt themselves in such a manner, the Aurors left the place alone most of the time, only making sporadic raids every three months or so. There was no real purpose in it, none of the Death Eater godfathers were ever found there, and besides, they had better things to do with their time.

However, had they bothered to make a raid today, they would have found themselves in possession of a very unexpected prize.

A lean, greying man with a lopsided ironic smile was seated in the corner of the room, his flat watchful eyes scanning the common room in what seemed to be an automatic reflex, drilled into him by years of hard experience. The two men sitting across from him watched him anxiously, as if they could not believe that he was actually here, that they were truly in his presence.

Inwardly, the man sighed. The ranks of the Death Eaters seemed to be getting younger and younger as time went on – or perhaps he was just getting old. These puppies were green, barely competent and overconfident into the bargain – they should not have been sent on this mission. In fact, they should still be living at home and causing trouble for their parents…

And he himself should be home, sitting by the fireplace, not running about killing as if he were twenty years old once again. He had thought he had been safe enough, that he'd earned an honourable retirement –

But some things you could not walk away from.

"Well?" one of them asked nervously. "Is it true? Has Malfoy changed sides?" Even now, Lucius Malfoy's reputation was the stuff of legends among the Death Eaters. He had not been one of the founding fathers of the group, being much too young, but he had been the most brilliant of the next, younger generation recruited to bring the Dark Lord's vision to life, birthed in blood and chaos, at a time when such things were not impossible. Yes, back then, there had been a genuine chance of success – especially when Lucius Malfoy had brought his energy and particular genius to the task.

He hadn't believed in the Cause. But he hadn't believed in the Auror's Cause, either, nor in the Ministry's cause, nor any other –

Utterly and unashamedly amoral, he'd happily caused chaos and disorder because it had pleased him to, because he was less than twenty years old and such things had appealed to him, then.

In the time since, he had changed a great deal.

"Yes," the man said quietly. "Moody got him a transfer out of Azkaban and the prospect of immunity –"

The other young man cursed. "Treacherous bastard…"

Treachery? Perhaps. But things looked different, once you had passed fifty years of life. No doubt Lucius had his reasons.

"So you saw him then?" That was the first young fool, the anxious one, who perhaps knew more of the consequences and implications of this startling development. "How close were you?"

He shrugged. "I waited until the Aurors came, and then again until Moody's squad arrived. He was there, with his son and with Moody – there's no doubt of it. You can't mistake him, no matter how much he's changed." He stopped to reflect, a small smile growing in his eyes. "I left him a little message, just to tease him, to see how much of the old Lucius still remains…"

"What!" hissed the second one. "Are you mad? Why didn't you just kill him, instead of trying to give the game away?"

The man cast him a slow, considering look. "He knew I was there. I could never have gotten through his defences. And besides," he said, the smile growing stronger, "where would the fun be in killing him on the very first day?"

* * *

Bill Weasley, it seemed, had found the spot from where the assassin had cast his curse. The wide, sheltering tree on the outskirts of the forest was a good hundred metres from the dead body itself, bearing out the theory that it was the same assassin – but there was something else, something disturbing in its implications.

Sir Samuel had been in the habit of walking in his garden at the same hour every single day. It was so predictable that you could set your timepiece by it, and had – in the forty or so years Sir Samuel had lived in the neighbourhood – become a matter of no little local amusement. But the grass and undergrowth squashed beneath the tree where the assassin had lain before casting his spell was far flatter than a short wait for a victim to manifest himself would warrant.

And there was the matter of the still smoking, still warm cigarette butt.

Of course. To watch the authorities scramble to make sense and solve the crime that you yourself had committed – it was an incredible ego-boost. Lucius should know, he'd done it himself a few times.

The bastard had been here all the time, watching and gloating.

He had known it, on an instinctive basis – a rising of the hackles, a thrill running down the spine – and yet he had almost ignored it, almost dismissed it as fancy. Had he not strengthened his defences, he might have been killed where he stood. No, he was not what he had once been, not even anywhere close to it. But a return to that mindset – as much as he could return to it, nearly thirty years later – might be necessary, if he wanted to survive…

* * *


	5. Interlude

A/N - A short interlude. I had some flashbacks I wanted to put in, and some more Lucius-introspection, butI'm afraid there isn't much plot at all.

Disclaimer – I don't own anything from the books. Don't sue.

* * *

Interlude_

* * *

_

_"Why didn't you tell me, Draco? What is he doing here?"_

_"I didn't know, Gin. I swear, I didn't have a clue…"_

Ginny stared at the man who had been behind the first and most disastrous of all her encounters with the Dark Lord. Tall, regal and silver-haired, the marks of his twelve-year sojourn in Azkaban were fading quickly, dimmed by the returning force of his style, his unconscious presence –

He was so like Draco it scared her, sometimes.

What had made Draco choose a different path to his father's? And was it possible that, with the return of Lucius' malevolent influence – an influence that Draco had lost at fifteen – he might come to rethink his choices?

Rational thought said no, that Draco had chosen his path and was more than resolute enough to hold to it, even if his father did try to persuade him otherwise. Rational thought said that he had his marriage to her, and his son, and the companionship and respect he had slowly acquired even with former Gryffindors to ground him, to keep him with the Ministry.

But she feared Lucius Malfoy, distrusted his magnificent presence and the charisma that, even now, was working on the most grim and battle-scarred of Aurors…

_…My father was the architect of the Death Eaters' reign of terror for eight, nearly nine years. He was not popular, or well loved, but he was brilliant; he was hard, even by Death Eater standards, but they followed his orders because they knew he would bring success. _

_He knew his trade, and he knew his followers – but most of all, he knew his opponents. He _was _one of them. He'd been raised one of them. And he used that knowledge to devastating advantage…_

* * *

It had been a very long time since Lucius had had to revisit the mindset of his Death Eater years. Eight, nine years out of a full fifty-three – it did not seem much, when viewed objectively. But those years, from eighteen to twenty-six, from the last years of boyhood to the years leading up to his prime, were vital in the development of his public persona and his true life, after young Potter had ended the wild madness of his youth.

Moody's file had been correct, though he had played innocent – it had indeed been the training camps in Northern Africa, after he had finished his seventh year at Hogwarts. For a modest sum, there had been those willing to teach budding young terrorists all the skills they would need to bring about their revolution, whether it be a Marxist utopia or an independent Northern Ireland or a land populated only by purebloods.

He had learned valuable skills. He had made useful contacts.

And he had discovered the pure exhilaration of action, of violence and adrenaline.

It was had all been so simple, so easy, once you cast off the tyranny of morals and scruples, to think in terms of shock value and effect, of media coverage and psychological terror rather than human life. But true conviction – the fanatic belief that muggles were lesser, that they endangered the sacred purity of wizarding blood – escaped him; he was still too much his father's son for that. He may have cast aside all his moral restraints, but his cool, trained and rational intellect could not accept Voldemort's propaganda.

He wondered if that excused his actions, or made him even worse than the true believers.

All that he had done, he had done in extravagant amorality, and in ice-cold calculation. And then, once there was no more need for the amorality, or the extravagance, he had hidden them – they could not be cast aside, because they were too much a part of him – and resumed the conservatism, the responsibilities and the restraints he had once so despised. No matter how he may feel about them personally, these things could not be cast aside either.

But he remembered the cool rationality of Lucius Malfoy the Death Eater. He remembered the detachment of the emotions and the domination of the intellect. He remembered the animal awareness of everything around him and the muscle memory – trained and trained and trained into him – of the physical and magical skills of a killer. But most of all, he remembered the suspicion, the constant and instinctive distrust –

It had not been, now that he thought of it, a very comfortable way of life.

* * *

(flashback)

They watched him. They had, in fact, had their eyes on him for a while now, this silver haired Prince of Slytherin, who wielded all the charisma and influence of the Malfoy name with all the careless flair of a man who cared nothing for politics, and even less for the power that could be his for the asking.

He was certainly nothing like his more careful, more conservative ancestors, who had acknowledged no superiors and had focused the whole of their considerable attention on their own affairs, their own designs, and their own estates –

Perhaps – an intriguing irony – it was his father's influence. His so dutiful father, who had chosen his country over his House.

Would his bright son choose the devastation of that same country in turn?

If they had anything at all to say to it, he would.

Because the word had just come through that Marcus Malfoy, a very senior, very decorated Auror, had been killed in Vietnam, of all places –although quite what he was doing there, or why he was with muggle American soldiers at the time of his death, had not been adequately explained. And young Lucius, though by and large politically indifferent, was Malfoy enough to resent the Official Secrets Act and high handed Ministry interference.

With a Malfoy by their side, they could gain enough money and prestige to do some real damage to the Ministry.

The decision was made. They would make contact.

His name had been Michael, then, and if it was not his real name, then it was as good a name as any other. A professional, a veteran, he had been chosen to bring the Malfoy boy into the fold – they had calculated to a nicety the approach that would most tempt the young Lucius, and had picked him to be the one to carry it out.

The son of an Auror, though he repudiated his father's actions and loyalties, Lucius responded best to confidence and competence, and not to calculating cowardice – Michael was, in his own steady way, both familiar and exotic enough to engage the young man's interest, and charismatic enough to hold it. It had begun in Hogsmeade, in the small dark tavern that had been the Slytherin pub of choice since time immemorial, where the students could imagine that they were wicked in sufficiently safe surroundings. A quiet conversation, every now and then. A listening ear. A source of the grim, strange humour that was the mark of veteran Aurors and Dark wizards alike –

The mark of all the soldiers, on both sides of the war.

And a safe foil for the young Malfoy's need for something _more, _something _real_, that could not be let out in his father's presence, because it was so contrary to anything that so conservative House allowed. It was 1970, and revolution and terrorism abounded in the world outside even Hogwarts and England. There was an air of change in the wind, a social revolution calling for change and reform, and for those who were willing to fight for it –

Romantic claptrap that appealed to educated, alienated, disaffected students.

But it made for easy pickings, when the time came to recruit them. Not that he would, after the very first meeting, ever have called Lucius Malfoy naïve. If he did not care for politics, it didn't mean that he couldn't play them, and play them very well – Michael preferred to think of him as restless.

The Malfoy had not always been conservative and insular. Once, they had been conquerors, ruthless killers who let nothing stand in their way; once they had _ruled _Britain in all but name. It was no surprise that Lucius was fascinated by the legends of his ancestors, and Michael found it almost too easy to seduce him with dreams of freedom from all restraint. It was, he supposed, the need to shed the restrictive trappings of polite wizarding society – of High Clan society – and find something meaningful. Michael could have told him that there were far more meaningful things in the world than a revolution, that it was all a game, really, in the end – but an addictive one, the most ironic, artificial and enjoyable one in the world, and once you'd set your foot upon the path, there was no going back.

He had given the young Lucius his first cigarette.

And then, six months later, he had stood beside him as Lucius received the Dark Mark.

(end flashback)

* * *

_Michael._

Lucius was certain that he'd recognized his old mentor's presence at the crime scene, felt his gaze on his back while he'd examined and identified the body. There had been too keen an interest, there – he wondered if old Sir Samuel had been chosen simply because he was a fervid anti-Death Eater, Ministry supporter, or because he had been the judge who had condemned Lucius to Azkaban all those years ago.

If it was the latter, then Lucius had a serious problem: a killer who knew all of his moves – who had taught him virtually everything he knew – and who also had a very personal connection with him. If Michael was now targeting Lucius' old enemies…

It could make it very difficult for him to explain.

* * *

A/N – The thought of the Malfoy as a conservative House is a new idea. Usually I don't portray them that way – but it may be the popular wizarding perception of the House at this point in time (ie the 70s). Perhaps, as with many things in the Victorian era, they became tamed and respectable? I wonder if the thought of one of the usually conservative Malfoy becoming an Auror was wild in Marcus' young days – however, this fic is mainly Lucius' pov.

Thanks very much to all my reviewers – your feedback is greatly appreciated.


	6. If Only

A/N – Mostly conversation in this chapter, to (further) establish the tangled Draco-Lucius dynamic. Also, lately I have been seriously tempted by a Lucius/Ginny plotbunny. Much effort has been spent in heroically fending it off, but the remnants of temptation can be seen in this chapter.

(Seriously, haven't you ever wondered…?)

(splashes cold water on her face and wrists)

Disclaimer – I don't own Lucius Malfoy. Worst luck.

* * *

Chapter 6 – If Only

* * *

The investigative and analytical discussion of Sir Samuel Griffith's death continued late into the night, until Moody finally called a halt when it became clear they were going over and over the same ground with no result. Things, he said, would be clearer in the morning – after a good night's sleep at the rustic hedge-tavern that was the only thing that passed for accommodation this far into the country.

The landlord had been thrown into a panic at the thought of so many guests all descending on him at the one time: the food, he'd explained, dry-washing his hands, was solid, honest fare, the rooms were clean and the bedding well-aired – _for we're simple people, here, not used to fine folk from London…_

Lucius had seen Moody's eyebrow twitch at this highly unlikely description. But as he'd said it, the landlord's eyes had been focused on Lucius – and not in recognition of an infamous Death Eater who should have been locked away in Azkaban. No, the landlord had recognized him as a Malfoy, as a scion of the highest, oldest house of the wizarding aristocracy, and had accorded him due deference.

It had been a very long time since he had seen such an innocent reaction.

Draco, of course, had been less than impressed – he'd always despised what he termed 'cringing, undue servility', and despised being associated with Lucius even more – and had disappeared as soon as possible. Moody, looking on, had looked insufferably amused; Ginevra had looked troubled and had gone after him. And then, after a short while, after Lucius had inspected his room, pronounced it to his taste, and gotten rid of the innkeeper as politely as possible, he joined his son outside.

It seemed Draco had something on his mind that he wanted to discuss.

* * *

Ginny had never before seen the true deference that the Malfoy name commanded. Watching the innkeeper bow and scrape, she had realized just how unusual her father was, in his refusal to kowtow to Lucius Malfoy: it was something that she'd always taken for granted, but – as she'd discovered as she grew older – extremely unusual in the still very class-conscious wizarding world.

"Is it always like that?" she asked Draco quietly. She had followed him out into the night, troubled by the way he'd left the inn – or rather his father's presence.

"Always." He dragged in a few shuddering breaths, and then forced himself to laugh shortly. "No, that's not quite true – usually, the deference is tinged with fear, with the ever-present knowledge of his true nature. Evidently, we must be stranded so deeply in the country news takes centuries to travel…"

She took her cue from him, kept her voice light. "Now _you're _being a snob, Draco."

He grunted.

A rich, smooth voice spoke from the shadows. "Actually, Ginevra, Draco is one of the less hidebound of his generation." She turned around to face her father in law, and wondered guiltily just how much he had heard. "He has a great dislike for unnecessary pomp and circumstance…"

"Unlike you, you mean?" Draco snarled in reply, startling her. "You, who couldn't care less about your rights or your responsibilities, but still insist on empty formalities? You once told me that accepting such homage was against all the principles of your youth – what changed you, Father?"

The sudden flare of anger was uncharacteristic, and Ginny could not help but wonder what lay behind it – whatever it was, it was very old, and very personal. But Lucius Malfoy, who had undoubtedly recognized the ancient, exposed hurt, nevertheless chose not to acknowledge it.

He laughed.

"Peace, free love and rock and roll? Or perhaps equality, self-determination and, if necessary, revolution? My father found such long-haired radical idealism dangerous – which, of course, is why I so indulged in it…"

Draco looked angrier than she'd seen him for a long time. "Then why indulge in Voldemort's ultra-conservative, pureblooded drivel? If you believed anything of what you played at –"

But his father cut him off. "Come, Draco, you should know better than that. Fanatics and true believers are unpredictable and dangerous –"

"Bullshit, Father. You've never believed a word of your own rhetoric. Everything you do and everything you say is a lie, a performance – is there anything, in the course of your sordid, misspent life, that is not tainted by manipulation or hypocrisy?"

Perhaps because Draco was facing away from him, and perhaps because he had long since stopped trying to look, only Ginny saw the fleeting shadow cross Lucius' face, and then vanish. She had the impression that he wanted to reach out and lay a hand on his son's shoulder – a comforting paternal gesture her own father used often – before he got himself back under control and any hint of vulnerability vanished.

"Of course not, dear boy. In the end, life's nothing but a grand, ridiculous game."

Draco rounded on him, but was prevented from violence by the cool, ironic confidence in Lucius' amused face. Ginny wondered if this was not the first time that Draco had been routed by that terrible unconcern, and whether it was the true root cause of his twisted relationship with his father.

Finally, Draco got himself under rigid control and stalked off back into the inn, all but vibrating in fury. Lucius watched him go, something unfamiliar darkening the normal lazy gleam of his eyes.

"You should not have said that," Ginny said cautiously.

He turned to her, and there was no trace of amused irony now. "What should I have said, then? Comforting platitudes that he will not believe, sentiment that only serves to romanticize?"

"What about the truth?"

Once more, he laughed – and this time it was a genuine laugh, Draco's laugh, and it lit his face the way Draco's lit when something truly delighted him, making it radiant and so beautiful it caught at her heart.

She drew in a shocked breath.

The Lucius Malfoy who had so insulted her father and had slipped the enchanted diary into her school things had been a stereotype, a sneering, arrogant example of everything that was corrupt and twisted in wizarding society. This was not that man.

This was what Lucius Malfoy could have been, this golden illusion of a bright, laughing creature: this was 'if only': the potential for another man, another life, another fate, if he had only made a different choice, if things had only gone a different way.

What could have, might have, would have been.

He was beautiful.

And then his smile tilted, the mockery returned, and the illusion was gone.

* * *

"Malfoy," Moody called out as Draco made his way up to his room. He could tell the younger Malfoy was in no mood for talk – not after that fascinating little tableau he'd witnessed outside – but this was too important to wait.

"What is it?" Draco scowled. "Sir."

Moody let it pass. "Do you know who Sir Samuel was?"

Draco laughed, and not in amusement. "I think we all knew who he was. I could hardly forget him – or his face as he read out the sentence." He was quiet for a moment. "I wanted to kill him, then. I wanted to kill them all…"

Moody knew the other man would never have dared to say that to anyone else – Draco, too, had learned to choose his words and actions carefully. But paranoia and decades of constant vigilance had put Moody as far out of normal society as Draco's upbringing had done for him – despite their often mutual antagonism, they shared an odd sort of understanding.

"And did you know that all the other victims were also enemies of your father in some way?"

"My father had legions of enemies," Draco scoffed. And then, "Are you suggesting…? No." He paused, and then said, again, "No."

His reaction fascinated Moody. "Just like that, you're defending him? No evidence, no facts, just faith – even though he's a hypocritical, manipulative liar who thinks of nothing but himself?"

He stiffened. By God, the boy stiffened. "My father may be many things, _sir," _he gritted out from behind a perfectly blank face, "but whatever else he is, he does not kill pointlessly – and there is no gain for him in this. If he arranged the assassinations to get out of Azkaban, why would he be so stupid as to implicate himself? The same reasoning applies to your theory of revenge. It's simply not logical."

He cleared his throat. "As it happens, I don't believe your father arranged this, Malfoy. You're right, there's no point to it for him. But there is another important point here."

Draco nodded. "Someone wanted us to think that he did it."

"Or that _you _did, Malfoy. Oh yes," he said in response to Draco's shocked look, "you said it yourself – you wanted to kill Sir Samuel, and all the others who gloated at your father's trial. You claim to dislike your father, you have repudiated him and all his works, and yet you still poker up when anyone but yourself insults him, and you defend him automatically.

"Some people," he continued, "might get the wrong idea. And I don't need to tell you how damaging that would be – not just in relation to this case."

There was silence, then, as Malfoy's pride and indignation warred with his intellect and common sense. Finally, he nodded sharply and turned away, heading up to his room – escaping, no doubt, from the tangled web of love, hatred, expectations, disappointment, divided loyalties and futile regrets that was his relationship with his father.

Moody sighed.

The older he got, the more he appreciated the fact that he'd never had children.

* * *

Thanks to all my reviewers. Your thoughts and comments are great, especially because this fic is so unlike any of my others. 


	7. Disclosure

A/N – Lucius finally comes to admit that his father may have been right. It is not a particularly edifying experience.

Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter or any of the canon characters and concepts. Don't sue me.

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Chapter 7 - Disclosure

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The next morning, the Aurors reconvened to reassess the matter in the cold and hopefully illuminating light of day. By the number of dark, suspicious glances turned his way, it was easy to see that most of them had made the inevitable connection – but it was also clear that Moody, of all people, did not believe it. The grizzled old veteran was too canny, and the connection too obvious – and he'd been in Azkaban for the first six of the murders, with no way to communicate with anyone, let alone an assassin. That being said, the only other way this could be connected to him was if someone had taken it upon themselves to kill them for him – the obvious suspect being Draco – but that was clearly ridiculous. 

Draco was an Auror, and Aurors stuck together – he knew that all too well.

So while there were suspicious looks aplenty, and most of them aimed at him on principle, no-one suggested that he had anything to do with these murders, other than trying to solve them so he could get a free pass out of Azkaban.

Lucius wondered what they'd say if they knew about Michael – and then, incredibly, found himself entertaining the thought of revealing all. He had nothing to lose anyway, and if his old mentor was trying to incriminate him or draw his attention… Years of secrecy and subterfuge warred with a reckless disregard for conventional wisdom –

Suddenly, he felt ridiculously young again.

So, when the talk came around to him again, he cleared his throat and said, "If I may, I believe I have something you might like to hear…"

There was a general sense of astonishment and less-than-polite skepticism. He ignored it.

"No doubt Bill Weasley has told you about the cigarette butt found at the scene, still smoking – and no doubt you're all aware of the implications. Someone was standing there watching us as we investigated."

Moody fixed him with an inquisitive, rather questioning eye, as if he was not sure what he was seeing anymore. "You know who it was? Go on."

Lucius tapped his fingers contemplatively on the table. "When I first joined the Death Eaters," he began, relishing the disapproving frowns, "my first trainer and mentor was a man who called himself Michael." He waved away Tonks' question. "I don't know what his real name was, and I've never found out. But it was he who recruited me, taught me all I needed to know, and then sponsored me into the North African training camps…" he looked at Moody and raised a brow.

Granger scowled furiously. "And you're admitting it?" she ground out. "Just like that, you're admitting it."

"Why not? I don't have anything else to lose, do I?" He shrugged, returned to his story. "One of the things he taught me was how much you could learn of an opponent by the way they behaved when they thought no one was watching. He emphasized the need for thorough surveillance of potential victims, and intense study of how Aurors worked and thought and acted… He would always wait behind after an assassination to see who came, and how they dealt with it."

Some of the Aurors, who had been the investigating officers on many of those assassinations, looked a little ill. He didn't need to say how easy it would have been to kill them, unaware as they'd been.

"So you're saying it was this Michael who was the killer, as well as the watcher."

"Yes."

"Then why would he try to draw attention to you with them?" Draco spoke for the first time.

"Perhaps," he answered dryly, "he hoped to create this very situation. Divide and conquer – it's the oldest and most effective trick in the book."

"For that," Granger muttered under her breath, "we would first need to be united…"

Tonks shushed her. "Why should we trust you?" she demanded, her fair hair and blue eyes so reminiscent of her aunt Narcissa. "Have you ever, in all your life, given anyone any indication that you can be trusted?"

Draco started up from his chair, but his wife put a restraining hand on his arm and he sat back down, scowling at his cousin. Moody looked ironically at Draco, and then under his brows at Lucius. "Well?" he challenged. "Can we trust you, Malfoy?"

Lucius sighed, and wished idly for a cigarette. Here, he sensed, at this particular moment, flippant answers and evasions would not be tolerated. He would have to answer honestly, answer truly despite all the years of misdirection and deliberate deception, otherwise he would lose their trust forever.

His father had once told him that the trust and respect of good men was the most important thing he could ever earn, and by far the most lasting – nothing, he'd said, would ever compensate for its loss, not money, not power, and not success. He'd never quite understood what the old man was talking about – he'd been too arrogant, and too thoroughly indoctrinated by Slytherin's modern credo of ruthless ambition and vicious backbiting – until the day he'd stood in the dock and been sentenced to Azkaban, and not oneof his erstwhile peers and allies hadmanaged to meet his eyes.

He hadn't expected them to, but he couldn't help but remember his father's funeral, when mourners and well-wishers had come from all over the world to pay their respects…

Who had come to watch him step into the darkened halls of Azkaban? Not his wife, not his son, and none of his 'friends' – only Moody had been there, Moody and the team of Aurors who had secured his imprisonment. And even more galling than the gloating satisfaction in the Aurors' eyes had been the faint sense of disappointment in Moody's.

And now here he was again, and these 'good men and women', all of whom would have earned his father's approval, were seeking to find some reason to trust him. For years he had run from his father's teachings, ignored them, mocked them, twisted them –

"In Merlin's name," he said finally, "I will not betray you." He swore not by the Lady, the patron of the High Clan, but by Merlin, who was the patron of the more modern wizarding society, and the creator of the very first ancestor group of the modern Aurors. The Order of Merlin was the preeminent chivalrous order in Britain, and an oath sworn in his name was particularly sacred to all who had ever studied arms at the academy…

"If you think that we'll believe that," Granger snarled at him again, but Arabella Figg, who had remained silent throughout, held up a restraining hand.

"No, my dear, wait. Lucius," she said, turning to him and pinning him with those faded, watery eyes he remembered from dim childhood memories as hot, electric blue, "can we believe you?"

He smiled crookedly, feeling oddly defenseless now that he had dropped all his artifice and shields. "In all my life, I have never sworn an oath in Merlin's name," he said quietly. "I am not that much of a hypocrite."

He held the old woman's eyes with his own, wondering how much she could see of those old, faded memories of a larger than life, heroic father who had picked him up and whirled him round, and then told him solemnly that some oaths were inviolate, and some truths were universal…

And some things were unforgivable.

Severus would have seen, had always been able to see more than Lucius cared to reveal. But Severus had seen too much, one night, and now he would never see again…

Finally she nodded. "Very well."

And it was enough.

* * *

"Alastor Moody," said the man known only as Michael, "can it be that you have finally managed to snare him?" There was laughter in his voice, genuine if ironic amusement as he poured himself a drink and considered the consequences of this morning's extraordinary vow. 

Magical vows created ripples in reality, the magic sealing the oath-maker to his word. He had known enough Aurors to recognize the feel of a vow sworn in Merlin's name. But this was something new – Lucius Malfoy, it seemed, had thrown his lot in with his old nemesis, rather than taking the first opportunity to escape.

Well, he had always known that old Marcus Malfoy had had entirely too much influence over his son, despite Lucius' avowals to the contrary. Lucius' recruitment had had to be handled with extreme care, lest those ingrained principles reawaken – as long as that ironic detachment had allowed him to stand back from his acts, to think of it as theatre, he had allowed himself to wallow in his own extravagant amorality.

But without that distance, without the irony, he became once again his father's son…

The emotional ties were in place, the father's legacy and the son's choice, and Lucius perhaps relished the thought of turning coat so thoroughly, and being so accepted by the most hardcore members of the Resistance. Whatever the reason, he had made his choice, and soon he would bring his own particular verve and energy to the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix.

In 1972, Lucius had unleashed the first and most devastatingly effective campaign of the true war, marking the Dark Lord's transition from a troublemaking guru on the fringes of society to a true, dangerous threat to the Ministry. He had struck at key military and government targets, spreading terror and chaos with the creation of the Morsmordre spell, assassinating key Aurors and Ministers. In one day, there had been thirty co-ordinated attacks – by the end of the week, wizarding Britain was on its knees.

And then Lucius' fellow Death Eaters, jealous of the young man's success, had managed to turn the Dark Lord's favour away from him, and command had passed to someone else – the new commander had managed to lose all the ground Lucius had so brilliantly gained, and the Death Eaters had never had such a close chance at victory again. The Ministry forces had been put on alert, the Aurors had been reinforced and given new powers, and the war had dragged on for another nine years, no matter that Voldemort had recognized and remedied his mistake.

If Moody had more faith in his old comrade's son than Voldemort had had in his young protégée…

Well. It would certainly make life very interesting…

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Thanks to all my reviewers. Feedback is greatly appreciated. 


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